


Err of The Mind

by IFrozeYourCookie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Self-Harm, Slight Sheriarty in the start, Strained Friendships, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-06 18:44:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17350562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IFrozeYourCookie/pseuds/IFrozeYourCookie
Summary: Alternative version of The Fall. Instead of falling to his fake death only to dismantle Moriarty's network for two years, Sherlock faked his death and worked for Moriarty in exchange for his friends' lives. Proving himself as a competent assassin for Moriarty, he was given a higher rank to work alongside Moriarty, but was brainwashed to think the only person who cares for him was the Consulting Criminal himself, to ensure Sherlock's service for him. Story starts with when Sherlock stepped foot on London again after two years.





	1. Déjà-Visité

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not be a multiple chapter story, because I might compile another idea after this fic. Anyhow, do enjoy my shit as long as they're up.

 

The brain is an unreliable author even for the beholder. It will manipulate your memory, distorting it as long as it's done in an intricate manner. And that's when sometimes, your intuition and your heartfelt instinct comes into play to bring you to the truth.

 

* * *

 

   "Sherlock, are you sure about this mission? It's in London," Sherlock was double-checking his equipment to go to London for a mission that had recently came in to Moriarty.

   "Why not? It's what we do, isn't it? Just that I'm the one doing the job and you make sure I'm safe from a distance," he put one arm around Moriarty's shoulders and gave a soft pat, as if giving reassurance. He didn't know why Moriarty was making a fuss about him taking a job that would require him to fly to London at a moment's notice. At least not yet. He knew London was where his last sense of humanity resides for whom he thought was worthwhile completely moved on from his 'death'. Moriarty proved to him how much of an unimportant little presence he was in their lives, and so he decided he should move on from whoever the three person was. All he cared about around that time period onwards was to make Moriarty proud of how well he did in the job. It was the least but the best attention for him throughout his service.

   Moriarty gave a tight smile and nodded at Sherlock's statement, obviously unsure of releasing Sherlock alone back in London. "Lord Moran will give you the details of which political people to take out. Remember, make sure you get  _all_ of them, it's crucial for his position in the government," Moriarty trailed his hand down to Sherlock's and gave a squeeze. He didn't expect any simple kiss or a brief hug, because he may be Moriarty's favorite, but that's all what he will be. Nothing more, nothing less-just like how he was with everyone else. But perhaps Moriarty's concern was real for this mission, because he hesitantly added, "Don't trail off the mission. Focus on that, and to get back here safely. Nothing more, nothing less,"  _It's not like he's going to find the three person he died to save if they never even liked him. Even the person with the initials of J.W he had in his mind._

   "Of course,"

   He was all sorted, with his black suit and assassin clothes that fits all his favorite tools used in any of his work of arts. Fast forward to when he reached London, straight to Lord Moran's office to get the rest of his briefings for the case. He got six codenames, complete with their exact schedules regarding of their whereabouts and of when they'll be there, in order to make these murders a swift one.  _Important people aren't too easy to kill. Need to get them under the radar, preferably in their own office, where they'd feel safe._

    _Two down, four to go._ Four more people need to be eliminated because they were overthrowing Lord Moran from his position in the government. He went cautiously to the third political person, codename : Antartica. The whole pathway toward's this person's office, the whole vibe of his steps was strangely familiar on his way towards the underground office.  _Right. Jim did say he'd be in his office right now_. That was the last message from him that he had gotten through his earpiece before he went underground. When he came upon the large, obviously heavy high quality door, he realized the door was unlocked and proceeded to eavesdrop for any signs of movement, to which there isn't. He crept into the room slowly to confirm his theory that the room was empty. The unusually familiar room was familiar, and the fact itself made him uneasy but he brushed off the thought because he's only there for work. Not to entertain the thoughts in mind about the place.

   He just needed to find where this next victim was and deal with him, before leaving for the fourth political man, but there's not much he could deduce because there's no indication that this man had any appointment outside of the building. Most probably going to be back soon in the room from the loo or someone's office, so he proceeded to look around for anything at all in this room that would help him remember why this room felt familiar.  _Annoyingly_ familiar.

***

   Two murders.  _Two bloody murders of two quite important people in the country_ and nobody had any goddamn clue about who did it. This murderer must be a very professional one, highly trained, and good god he needed to be captured quick. Everyone was panicking, and of course everyone went to him, the great Mycroft Holmes who usually solved the government problems, asking him to track down any signs of this assassin. He had sent spies into various gangs and mafias in his knowledge, and none came back with even a speck of lead. This was getting rather interesting. For once in a blue moon, he'd came across a highly intelligent criminal. Dear lord, he felt like his brother trying to catch a criminal on a spree-  _his brother._ It's been too long since he had lost contact with him. Since the fall, to be exact. News had arose that he had been seen again but he didn't have time for a search party for him when a murderer was at loose, killing all these high-ranked people.

   After a bit more of investigating, he had found a connection between the two victims, which was Lord Moran. Ugh of course, how was he this slow? The killer must had been assigned to kill anyone who was a threat to his position of power, and unfortunately he himself would be one of them. The time of murder had a pattern, and was bound to be repetitive even for today. So he called up his security team before walking back to his office, followed by the loyal Anthea, all waiting outside the office to fetch the moment the infamous murderer to show himself.

 


	2. Presque-Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe being the best assassin known from the underworld doesn't help Sherlock escape the intellect of his own brother, Mycroft Holmes. Every flight will eventually experience its fall, and so does the glory days of Sherlock's assassin identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and maybe a few more ahead) could be highly frustrating because we're dealing with denial, confusion and misplaced affection of the greatest mind of Britain. It's a mild frustration (or major, however you take it) for most but an entertainment for me, so do keep anticipating for more

 

   One of Mycroft's minion who was leading the other five to ambush the murderer, while patiently, and quietly, waited for a signal from Mycroft himself. They  _know_ the assassin was inside, most probably waiting for Mycroft to casually come back to the office. After a few straining seconds, they hear a faint code from their earpieces indicating a safe go to proceed further. The leading guy knocked on the door, as if he was just a messenger passing important notes to Mr. Holmes.

   "Sir, are you in?" he casually asked through one side of the door while looking at the rest of his teammates, nodding when he heard movement from inside the office. In sync, all of them raised their gun and pointed it towards the door, ready to kill as per ordered.  _"Kill the murderer, but don't make too much mess we can't handle. I have eyes on you,"_ Mycroft reminded them before letting a pause set between the two orders that would set their plan in action. The silence hung between everyone inside and outside of the room-the calm before the storm.

   The simple knock Sherlock heard wasn't much of a scare for him but it did startle him out of his thoughts about whoever that room belonged to. He didn't hear any footsteps fading away- _the knock was a simple distraction. Pathetic._ He tiptoed behind the door so that he won't be seen first hand when they pushed the door, and in position to attack whoever that'll see him. He fixed his mask back on his nose and mouth to absorb any unnecessary sounds he might make, even the sound of breathing, that could spoil anything he planned. His finger was ready on the trigger and his gun was fully loaded. A refill was in his tool belt around his left thigh in case there's more people than he expected.  _Just_ a gun wouldn't suffice, so he carefully withdrew a spare Gerber Mark II dagger from underneath his coat and rested his gun hand on top of the one holding the dagger firmly. He would rather prefer a twisted bayonet dagger but this rare dagger was rewarded to him just after his one year of service. He'd see it as good luck, even though he doesn't really believe in luck. He shook off the train of thoughts in his mind and leaned just a little bit onto the wall to make sure the door wouldn't hit his face full force if the person outside kicked in with maximum energy, and kept his sight to the door.  _Kill or be killed, then._

It didn't take too long for the team outside to get a signal from Mycroft. They nodded to each other, a silent confirmation and quick double check about their action before one of them kicked the door in a hard slam, harder than what Sherlock anticipated. Sherlock, in attempt to avoid the door from hitting his face, jumped out of his hiding spot and straight into the centre of attention of the team assigned for his death. He kept his grip at both his weapons while glancing at the door to find it sealed by two armed men. Sighing, he made sure to make as little movement as possible, as all the target laser was all over him from the team's guns which efficiently surrounded him.

   "PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN! YOU'RE SURROUNDED!" Sherlock swallowed a smart remark to say 'don't bother pointing out the obvious' because it'll somehow set a bomb onto himself at this point. It's embarrassing to be in such situation when he'd been so cautious all these times to successfully escaped the radar of higher authorities. He muttered a curse under his breath, and squinted a bit when he scanned the whole pack to assess how many they were but obviously too many for him to take out in such a small place when crowded.  _I can't take out all of you idiots._ Grunting, he's quickly planned a quick escape from the room under their noses. Thankfully he spent the time scanning the room earlier quite thoroughly. In the midst of planning and frowning as he eliminated options that would be insufficient to flee, the team was startled by the loud voice in their earpiece.

    _"DON'T SHOOT! IF ANY OF YOU DO, YOU. ARE. DEAD."_ Sherlock turned to the nearest man because he also heard a rather distorted, but pressing voice from the earpiece. Why wouldn't they be confused with such an order? They're there for no other reason than to kill the murderer, and Sherlock was there ready to fight back but the voice on the other end of the line was urging them not to do what as assigned. One man, however, was the itchy-finger who was obviously not pleased for all the trouble they went through just to stand there in front of a man who obviously killed many, so he slowly crept behind Sherlock and tase him in a swift move. It was a smart move, to be honest, but it was still not within the order. Quite forgivable for a petty minion. Sherlock was caught off guard by the movement and managed to claw on the man but his grip weaken as quickly as he was losing grip on his own consciousness. In a split second, he fell a bit too hard on the cold ground with a thud accompanied by the clanks of his dagger and gun falling beside him. His eyes was open, he was fully aware he was twitching and quivering on the ground, but he was completely unfocused. His vision and mind were slowly turning hazy.

   When his body stopped convulsing and was static on the ground except for soft, shaky breaths, one of the man in the team took out a pair of handcuffs to restrain the now slumped body. Hesitating, they finally decided to take off the mask off his face and when they did, they looked at each other in a mix of pity, confusion and misplaced guilt. No wonder their boss didn't want them to shoot. He recognized him, of course he would. It's his own brother. They confiscated the weapons Sherlock had with him before dragging his limp body out of the building and into a black car to be sent out to a confinement.


	3. Anhedonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He assessed the situation with his brainwashed brother and decided to finally let the cat out of the bag about his fake death to the three person he had saved from Moriarty. The efforts to restore what's left of the old Sherlock started, and frankly, it wasn't the best progress they expected. Sherlock was so fixated on the ideology Moriarty put onto him and sees the people he had loved the most now as his worst enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a busy weekend ahead of me, so I put no such promises to make a daily (or every two days) updates on this.  
> Anyway this chapter might be longer than the first two ;)

 

   After god knows how long he had been unconscious, his eyes finally fluttered open and his senses started to come back one by one, functioning gradually until he could feel the ache all over his body. He finally decided to look around and realized he was on a white bench-like bed (as if the ones in the hospital) in an all-white room, with his own all-white outfit. His previous clothes was neatly folded beside him on the bed and all his weapons,  _even the hidden ones,_ were all confiscated. He proceeded to sit up and get out of bed while rubbing his red wrists that was irritated from the cuffs before turning his head to what was on the other side of the glass wall. 

   "Your code name is  _Antartica_ , though a certain someone prefer the name 'Ice Man' on you. Aged 41, unofficially. A minor position in the government but big enough of a position to threaten my employer," Sherlock's deep baritone voice was clearly heard by Mycroft, who was reading a book cross-legged on a chair outside of Sherlock's cell while Sherlock didn't move from his bed and kept looking out to the man in a fairly expensive outfit, fitting for a political man, who's family was a country squire.

   Mycroft chuckled and without raising his head from the book, he answered "It's been a while since I had been using that code name," the casual tone in his voice annoyed Sherlock more because now he's on the receiving end of the humor. 

   "But it's still yours," he hissed back before walking straight in front of the glass wall separating them two, directly opposite of Mycroft. " _Let. Me. Out._ " He's ready to break the glass down, even if it's hopeless to escape but he was desperate by now.

   "Why should I?" Mycroft was clearly unimpressed.

   "So I can finish my job, is why,"

   "Did this brainwash you went through made you stupid, Sherlock?"

   Sherlock grunted and turned to his back, tired of playing the game with this man and mumbled under his breath, "Jim would send someone to break me out soon". He turned back to Mycroft and asked about the unsettling familiarity he felt in his office.

   "Why-When I entered your room, it seemed familiar. I don't get it,"

   "Not surprising, considering it was you habitual routine to come barging into my office when you have a demand in mind, or just to annoy me from time to time. You  _do_ get bored easily and I seem to be your entertainment,"  _Habitual? Annoy him? That's... That sounded like someone who shares a bloodline. But-_

   "Tell me your last name," he asked in a lower voice, uncertainty in his voice while frowning at his own question. Mycroft closed his book and finally looked at his lost brother with seriousness. "Can't remember it, can you?" he raised one eyebrow while awaiting for Sherlock's response.

   "It's Holmes. Mycroft Holmes," he continued when Sherlock wasn't offering any answer. But the revelation seemed to only made him more confused.

   " _Holmes_? As in..." he sighed and averted his gaze towards the ceiling of the white cell. "Stop playing with me. If you are indeed  _him_ , then you need to prove it".

   "Prove what? That I am your brother? Do you want a list of all the things that you had done when you were little that pissed me off? If so, you will have to wait for a while because frankly, even a file can't fit all the lists," he sneered back. His mind was now a mess, with two contradicting tales mixed up in his mind. Slamming his fist on the thick glass, he raised his voice that was unintentionally filled with agony and hurt.

   " _You_ left me for dead! If it weren't for Jim I would,"  _have died._ The words died at this throat before he clicked his tongue, attempting to reevaluate the situation. "He showed me that none of you fucking cared nor wanted me, so he made me into something I was born to be. They would usually nickname me as Erebus or Azrael. Sounds familiar?" with pride painted across his face, he faced Mycroft, awaiting for any sort of reaction to the name.  _He must've known his reputation. He was the best there is._

Mycroft only looked unimpressed by this revelation, but also looked sad in a split second because Sherlock truly believed that no one cared about him. Back to his cold persona again, he finally spoke.

   "Yes, the name is familiar. Now tell me, if  _Jim_ really thought you were important, shouldn't he had already broken you out? It's been three days, Sherlock. No rescue team came for you," this could hurt him, but Sherlock needed to know the truth. He was being used.

   "He's not in London. Of course it would take him time to even realize that there's something wrong because I never failed in any of the mission I've been sent to,"  _I just don't want to believe that Moriarty, too, doesn't care about him._

   "Even though he isn't here. He must have people looking out, reporting back to him about what's happening every second. They would have already told him that you  _failed_. I am sorry, brother dear, but I am positive that he's not interested in you as much as you think. You're just one of his spare tools,"  _Well. Isn't everyone just lovely, pushing him aside when we put them in our personal spotlight?_

   " _Stop_ telling me this!" he clenched his hair and let out a long exasperated sigh. "You're-you're just trying to make him look bad to me, because you don't like him". Mycroft stood up and goes directly in front of Sherlock, talking in a dangerously low tone, "just as he did with me, John and the others".

   " _John?_ " he pressed his lips together and after a few moments, he pulled up his sleeves to show a still-healing carving of the letters 'J' and 'W' with a delicate knife. " _JW?_ I... I had flashes of his name a few times but-" a pause. He's clearly choosing his words to see if he should or should not have this information before deciding in a short time.

   "Who is he?"

   Mycroft glanced at Sherlock's sleeves and back up at him. "John Watson, an ex-army doctor who had moved in with you four years ago in 221B Baker Street. He's your best friend," he briefly explained, just in case Sherlock couldn't take in too many confusing information considering his current mindset, thanks to Moriarty.

   "Don't think I could recall who he is. I'm sure it doesn't matter," the response earned him a scoff from Mycroft, before he retrieved his phone to open a picture of John and pressed the screen onto the glass barrier between them, giving Sherlock a chance to clearly see the picture. When he was sure Sherlock was looking at the picture, he asked in complete dissatisfaction, "Ring any bell?". Slowly, Sherlock reached out and rested the tip of his fingers on the glass, directly above John's picture, as if trying to reach out for the real thing.

   "I... think so. I went away to save him. Why and how so?" The picture somehow put some sense of peace and clarity in him, although he was utterly confused by that point from every single piece of contradicting information mixed in his mind palace. A part of him wanted to figure things out but the other just wanted to rip his brains out and just die, because the thought was killing him to the point its aching all over, even in the cavity people would say the heart rested in.

   "Because, he, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, were under Moriarty's threat. He was ready to kill them, so you saved them by making everyone believe you had really died, to convince the snipers the deal with Moriarty was settled. Me, and Miss Hooper, of course knew what happened and knew you went to infiltrate Moriarty's network in multiple countries, making sure he wont harm anyone else," at this point, Sherlock was starting to breathe more heavily out of frustration the information gave him. Which story should he believe in and which one to delete from his mind? In the brink of tears, he managed to choke out some words while Mycroft looked at him apologetically. He  _knows_ this all was a bit too much for him right now, but it's necessary.

   "Wh-This is a mind trick, isn't it?  _Fuck_. What are you planning to do with me, then? Kill me?"

   "Keep you safe from Moriarty, and from yourself. I'm afraid I will have to keep you here for a while. Hopefully the panic of the murders you committed soon come to pass and, do what I can to get your memories back," with a sad expression on his face, he tried to be a proper big brother for his lost baby brother-a lost cause, like a dejected child.

   "Safe from Moriarty? I feel safe  _with_ him," he frowned back at Mycroft.  _This doesn't make any bloody sense._

   "Brother, do you really think he will act nicely if he ever get you back, knowing that you failed your mission?" he spat out these words while raising his eyebrow, as if stating the obvious but  _he doesn't truly know Moriarty._ Though Sherlock was already rethinking if he actually  _do_ know the real Moriarty he claimed to be.

   "Well, if you think so, then why don't you just send me on death row? I suppose it's what everyone want for me right now," he sighed, tired of these conversations. He just wanted it to stop and close his ears from the lies and deceit in which some of them could possibly be the truth.

   "Sherlock. I am your brother and no matter what Moriarty had said of me, I  _do_ care about you. I heard that we had traced back your tracks to you. I was honestly pleased, especially after we lost contact for so long. I'm sure John would be very happy, maybe a bit angry at the beginning because technically we  _did_ lie to him about an important information of your survival, but he will be happy that you are alive. Not too well, but still alive," both of them let out a long breath. This interaction was wholesome.

   "Just... Leave me alone. I need to make sense of this," he rubbed his face, hiding it from Mycroft's stare.

   "Sure. Food will be served normally. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. And I will try to come often to see how you're doing. Goodbye, brother mine," a short speech, but enough as a parting speech. He left the room, leaving Sherlock in the blank white space for him to finally breathe and think properly.

   It would not be an easy task, but he needed to break the news of Sherlock's return to John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Maybe he'd lead only the two men to his office and inform Mrs. Hudson personally at 221B Baker Street. She was in fact an aged woman, might as well give her the comfort of home upon receiving a discomforting information. He needed to let the cat out of the bag, because he needed their cooperation to bring back the old Sherlock.  _The_ Sherlock that annoys people and impresses people from time to time as a Consulting Detective with an international reputation. The criminal identity of him shall be kept only as an alter-ego and no more.


	4. Misslieness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally Mycroft broke the news to the ones who had always believed in Sherlock, even believed that he really did died two years previous to this unexpected reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of enthusiasm in my writing for this chapter. I was highly motivated to finish this chapter but my mind and eyes wasn't cooperating. Frankly speaking, I was a bit sleepy and exhausted writing this after midnight and I have plans for tomorrow early in the morning. But a writer gotta write.

 

   He exited the room where Sherlock was to be confined in for a while.  _A while_ was an understatement; he'd be there for such a long time because even if he wouldn't want to believe it, his brother was undeniably a murderer. His brother was back and alive, but his mind wasn't. His mind was somewhere deep within him, locked by Moriarty and keys thrown into the sea. And he will try to find that key to bring his brother back. He had some memory flashes nevertheless, so that's good. Least somewhere inside his mind was fighting back the manipulation set upon him, so he just needed to assist, but  _how_?

   After a few moments of thinking about worst case scenarios and possibilities, he only had one plausible solution, which was to break the news to the public. But... perhaps firstly to the three most important people for Sherlock pre-fall. He shifted his attention towards the screen that showed Sherlock through the cell cameras, just sitting on the bed-clearly thinking. Maybe if they come and talk to him, he would start to believe the truth once again. But he sure wasn't eager for the response for when he tells them about the faked act. Some yelling would definitely be involved but it would be worth it if it meant he could get them to help him in this problem.

   Dialing Anthea, he took out a fancy scotch bottle along with three glasses before telling his trusty assistant to send two cars out for both Greg Lestrade and John Watson. If they tried to resist in any way, they had the pass to force them even physically. He pours the alcohol until one third of each glass, because a bit of the strength from the alcohol would make them take the news more easily. It always does.

 

* * *

 

 

   Lestrade was working on a cold case, because suddenly the criminals in England was surprisingly idle, but he rarely ever managed to solve a cold case without Sherlock. He needed his brains, even after two sorrowful years. Flipping through the files he had on that particular case, Anderson came in to tell him that a car was waiting for him outside New Scotland Yard. He was partially bewildered, because he didn't order pizza, he didn't have anything planned for the night, and he certainly didn't have any date even on a last minute notice. But he got up anyway, because he wasn't progressing on the case he had on his hands. He grabbed his coat and left the files on the desk for further reading.

   Walking out the NSY, he sees the supposed car waiting for him, and recognized everything of the car. The colour, the brand, and the tinted windows. Usually when this car came for him, it was because the other Holmes would want his help to track down Sherlock or help solve a little case involving Sherlock. It would all be about Sherlock. But why now? There's nothing to be spoken about after two years-Sherlock was  _dead_. He didn't want to know, he really didn't. No involvement, no nothing. But curiosity got the better of him, because he asked himself  _'What was behind that car door?'_. He got into the black car, and it almost instantly drove away. The whole trip took so long, so he was sure he was now outside of London.

   The car halted to a stop, and the driver told him to get out of the car, in which he did because disobeying these guys' orders would prove to be harmful to anyone regardless of rank. He stepped onto the pavement and heard the car engine fade as it drove away behind. Looking around, his mind was hazy as he didn't know even a bit where he was. The building in front of him looked highly guarded and secure, but he still didn't know the purpose of him being there. Should he wait? Maybe, just for a few minutes and he'll try to ask the guards at the door.

 

* * *

 

 

   John was walking home, tired from his long, boring day at work in the hospital. Usually he would have company walking back, but Mary was feeling unwell; a headache, she said. He offered to stay home and take care of her, but she insisted otherwise.  _"You need to work, John. You don't have to skip work just because I'm sick"_ she whined but with a very lovely smile across her face. He did managed to stop by a grocery store on his way back, but the plastics in his grip wasn't filled with food-just basic miscellaneous home items. He had something in mind about the food issue-he wanted to bring her over to a fancy (and coincidentally) her favourite restaurant and have dinner there. Maybe, just maybe if he could word it out, he would finally propose to tie the knot with his girlfriend of somewhere under two years.

   In the midst of his train of thoughts, a long, black car stopped beside him on the street. A tall man, quite serious by the looks of his posture and general gestures, got out of the car and stood in front of him.

   "Sherlock Holmes is waiting for you, sir," John just scoffed at this. This must be Mycroft's tactic to get his attention, because anything of Sherlock always did. But he's not an idiot, so he walked faster, keeping a thought in mind.  _Sherlock Holmes is dead. He dropped to his death and I **saw** it. Don't get in the car, it could be dangerous._ The man in the black suit was obviously not pleased in any way about him speeding up the street because he chased after him and pointed a gun at him, forcing him to turn back to the car and get in. He finally complied when threatened like so.

   It felt almost eternal in the car, but in reality it was only approximately 25 minutes. Finally the minutes were up and he reached a part outside London that seemed rather abandoned except a very white, properly structured and guarded building. He looked around to see the car drove away so he proceeded to walk closer to the building to see a man looking as lost as he was, so he approached him, pat him once on the shoulder thinking that he could help him, only to see it was his own friend, Lestrade.

   Not the reaction he was expecting, but Lestrade froze upon contact and looked more startled that what he would deem necessary.

   "W-What are you doing here?" John asked, expecting a rational answer because Lestrade did arrive earlier than he did, so he must know something by now, _right_?

   "I could ask you the same,"

   "Well, you can ask me but you know that I know as much as you do about this,"

   "I don't know anything, except who we're here for,"

   "Sherlock Holmes is dead. It can't be him," as if on cue, a few armed men came out of the prison and walked near them and gestured them inside.

   "Sir, if you would follow me. I shall bring you to your meeting venue," he turned back around and walked in long strides inside the building. John and Lestrade had no other option but to follow the guardsmen because standing outside cluelessly wont help whatsoever. Fear and anticipation in heart, they finally reached an office-like door after walking through some corridors and past many rooms. One guard knocked on the door and stepped aside to give room for the two confused men to enter when he heard a faint but strict voice say  _"You may enter"._

   John nodded at the man and looked at Lestrade. He was clearly nervous, because what if the man from the car wasn't lying? What if, upon entering the room, they would see Sherlock sitting in a chair with a very neutral and relaxed face. Lestrade looked back at John and pushed the door open for the both of them, because at this point no one was going to do it. Upon entering however, he just wished he could go back when he saw who was inside. John would have agreed to his thoughts if he had said it out loud, he was sure of it because he heard John sighed in annoyance but also in relief. A conversation with Mycroft wasn't anywhere near  _common_. Something was wrong.

   With a glass of nearly finished scotch in his hand, he gestured the two men to the seat in front of him. "Please, have a seat". Both of them walked towards their respective seats, each with their own skeptical expression.

   "What the shit," Lestrade mumbled under his breath and looked at the scotch, thinking that if such drink was served, then it probably would be a heavy kind of information to be given out. When Mycroft saw the two men in confusion and frustration about being there, he sighed and put the glass back on his table to straighten himself before putting both his elbows on the table, propping his chin on his hands.

   "So, Doctor Watson, Detective Inspector. I have some...  _new_ to tell you. I know you will not quite like them, but do keep in mind that I had no choice but to do this," he said this while looking utterly resigned.

   John raised his eyebrow when he heard that there would be news to be told to both of them.  _It can't be about Sherlock, now can it?_

   "Oh really?" Lestrade scoffed before continuing, "You have  _a lot_ to tell us, considering you just abducted us from wherever we were". That earned him a silent pause as Mycroft reconsidered his words.

   "My brother, Sherlock Holmes, was never dead. He had to fake his death in order to protect you, apart from his dear landlady and second mother figure, Mrs. Hudson, from Moriarty, who had snipers set on all three of you during the time of the fall. Sherlock went to various countries, almost always with minimal weapons or means of survival, went  undercover to destroy the network web by web, strand by strand," he had to pause, and get his breath back because saying what comes next internally hurt him to do so. "He was... unfortunately been taken in by Moriarty during his mission and was  _brainwashed_ , who made him forget about all of us-of his old life in London. He was made to believe that none of us cared about him nor liked him, and that Moriarty's attention was all that mattered," he lets out a long breath and observed the looks on John and Lestrade when he stated these information. Tense, but still willing to listen.

  "Three days ago, Sherlock was sent to kill political figures, including me, and he didn't even knew me. Fortunately, we managed to apprehend him and he is now  _here._ Now, before you talk, let me explain that if you knew something about his faked death beforehand, it would have been proven fatal for all of you. That is one reason, the other was that if he had actually died during his undercover mission, you didn't have to suffer twice and mourn in grief more than you already did," after the long explanation, he leaned back into his chair a bit, more relaxed to finally let out the information. He turned his computer towards John and Lestrade, letting them see Sherlock on his bed, just looking up to the blank ceiling.

   John was taken aback by this burst of information and took his time to process everything. Lestrade, on the other hand took one of the prepared glass of scotch in front of him, and took a big sip before looking at Mycroft, Sherlock and the glass in his hands back and forth. He put the glass back down angrily and harder than necessary. 

   "I get that he was in danger  _in the beginning._ But this,  _this_ damn thing took you two bloody years, for god's sake! You could have at least said something earlier, or let us know earlier! That would tremendously help to not have this come as a shock to either of us," he sighed and put both his hands at the sides of his head. "Two years. And now you made contact just to let us know Sherlock is back.  _'Hey, remember me? I'm Sherlock. I'm back'_   with a smile on his face, huh. What am I supposed to do here? What are  _we_ supposed to do here?!"

   Mycroft took his time to find proper words before responding to the anger he had expected from either of them. "We just couldn't. We just couldn't possibly risk your life. And as I said, if we had informed you earlier, it would have resulted in jeopardy for both you  _and_ him.  _Especially **him**_. I wouldn't risk that, neither would he. Plus, if he had actually died later, I don't think either of you would take his death better than the first time," and to be honest, they wouldn't. They'd just go on a mob saying that Mycroft gave them false hopes because no promises for survival was made.

   "This is some bloody fucked up shit, I can tell you that," he sighed and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and looked at nothing in particular, just in the space between them. When Lestrade doesn't seem to have any more remarks to make, it was finally John's turn to talk, and Mycroft was in a way scared of what he would say. He  _was_ the most important person to Sherlock back then, and not even he comes close to the rank in Sherlock's mind.

   John actually stopped paying attention towards Mycroft from the part where he mentioned that Sherlock Holmes was never dead.  _Never dead._ He looked at the monitor and back at Mycroft to confirm what he was seeing was real. His mind was completely blank right then. He couldn't manage to move, nor see anything. Everything was so blurry as his mind was clouded with jumbled up emotions and he was somewhere between anger and tears.

   So, his best friend was never dead, huh. Right. That's bloody  _cool_. He had wasted two years worth of tears for a man who wasn't even buried under his own tombstone, two years of being so fucking stupid to believe someone he had cared about had died. Of course, Sherlock was as if a God of Mischief. He was  _indestructable_ but he set the destruction upon everyone else, himself included. Neither brother had the courtesy to face him to tell him, or at least give him a sort of hint, that he didn't have to cry from grief. It was all for nothing, and swear to god, he never wanted to cry for Sherlock anymore by that time, no matter what the circumstances were. He took the remaining one glass and drank all the alcohol in it in one tilt and slammed it back on the table. He had lost Mycroft in the middle of the conversation with Lestrade, and only managed to hear the last bit of it.

   John cleared his throat before finally addressing his view, "Are you serious, Mycroft? I thought you were an intelligent man, I mean, this lie is ridiculously inhumane! You and  _him_ convinced even the most important people in his life that he was dead-committed suicide-because he was fake. How the fuck are we supposed to take this information as it is?! No, I can't accept this! For god's sake, you control all the computers, systems and contacts all around London, how come there wasn't any other option but to let us live a lie?" he had to take a pause, because everything was just overwhelming. The lies, the terrible,  _terrible_ deceit he was told and made to believe was horrendous.

   "The worst part now is that he doesn't remember anything. He thinks we are monsters under the bed, and we don't love him. He trusts Moriarty like his own partner," he spoke this out slower than usual. "You said  _we didn't want to risk your life_. But just a friendly reminder, Mycroft; you know damn well that I would gladly risk my life for Sherlock, if it meant to save him. It doesn't matter if I died, with or for him. Nothing mattered more to me than the bond we had. I was a lost, ex-army doctor without any familial relative except for my alcoholic sister and was craving the warzone.  _He_ gave me the war, and he saved me by doing just that. I owe him some saving too, Mycroft. Now tell us, what are we supposed to do?" John leaned back on his chair and sighed, looking at Mycroft with a tired expression while awaiting a response. A rational one.

   Mycroft tensed immediately at John's reaction and looked down at his hand, staying silent for a few because what John said was right, so he tried to construct a plan forth. Pushing aside the generic cold and arrogant persona, he switched it up with a warmer approach and his eyes was not anymore lack of emotion. It was full of empathy for his dear brother.

   "We're going to bring him back".

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did expect this to be long, but it became longer than I anticipated but hope you got a good read of the burst of emotion of the characters in the story :)


	5. Convalesce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The visits started to see how Sherlock react to the people who he presumably saved before working with Moriarty. It was the search for the truth for him, and it wasn't anywhere near easy.

 

   The responses Mycroft had managed to harvest out of both John and Lestrade-especially John, was well expected. He did tensed to hear them criticize him and raised his voice because for years of intervening in their lives about Sherlock,  _that_ had never happened, until that moment. But no need to add fuel to the fire. He pushed afar his arrogant personality to express his concern and hope for what could happen if they do cooperate.

   "I really did thought he was dead when I lost track of him. But now he's back, and he had flashbacks, fragments of memories from the past," he turned to John midway the sentence, "and he had even written your initials on his sleeves, reacted positively to a picture of you and your name. I believe, if we go see him on our own assigned time to talk to him or just simply spend time with him, the brainwash effect could fade away slowly," he sighed as he relaxed his shoulders significantly. The verbal conversation had drained so much, he wondered how much it would tire him to actually commit to this  _project._

   "I hope you're right, Mycroft,"

   "I can't promise the yet to be outcome, but I can promise you I didn't lie about anything," Mycroft reassured, followed by John nodding at the statement with an unsure expression. No one had more inquiries further than the clarification about Sherlock's whereabout during the two years, so Mycroft had devised a plan regarding the visits with Sherlock. One of the most reasonable entrance into Sherlock's cell was to serve the food for breakfast, lunch and dinner (probably tea and supper every now and then) because it wont come too much as a shock for Sherlock if someone entered with a reason that wont make him feel oppressed. John offered to go in first for lunch and Lestrade for dinner, just in case bringing too many faces in would result badly and because he seemed to remember John the most, even if it's just by the name or hazy memories.

   Mycroft had let them stay in his room because he still had to fix the mess his brother made of the murders, also giving them room to discuss and digest the newly obtained information. While drinking their complimentary scotch, Lestrade finally broke the silence between the two men.

   "How have you been holding up, John?"

   "I... actually I found someone," he looked at Lestrade with a bashful expression. Lestrade was clearly surprised by this. He would had expected John couldn't move on from Sherlock's 'death' at all, but apparently he was wrong.

   "Really? That's amazing! Who's the lucky person?"

   " _She_ is amazing," he gave a small smile. "She helped me a lot, especially when I was mourning and was falling hard after Sherlock's supposed death. She's just heaven sent". They knew that they should be talking about the more pressing matter on hand, but they needed the distraction, even just for a fraction of second.

   "That's good. How long are you two together now?"

   "Two years, more or less, and there's more about our relationship,"

   "What? More news?"

   "Yes, but they're good news. Don't worry," he put down his empty glass of scotch. "We are getting married. Or at least that's what I hoped we could be. I already got a ring but didn't get a chance to propose to her yet".

   "Do you think she'll say yes?"

   "I really do hope so," at this point, John looked insecure and a tad nervous about his decision to marry his girlfriend, and Lestrade knew that look. He had it with his ex-wife when the spark in their relationship still existed. So he smiled at John when that expression reminded him of good times.

   "How about you, though? How is everything?"

   "I was quite alright, I suppose. After Sherlock 'died', I tried to get my life back together again, even managed to meet someone too for a few weeks, and then  _this_ happens".

   "Do you think she's  _the one_?" Well, that phrase was common but it felt like he was quoting Sherlock whenever John came back from a date every now and then. God knows how he managed to deduce his date without even seeing who that was half the time.

   "I don't think so. Well, I don't know but I assume she's not. I like her, but there's nothing interesting in it for me and I'm sure she thinks the same of me," he said with as much uneasiness as John was when he was considering the possibility of his proposal to be rejected. They exchanged a few more words and smiles and reassurances until the hour had passed. It was finally the time for John to serve lunch for Sherlock, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't even the slightest nervous to finally see Sherlock after two years of not being face to face with the mad genius, if that's even him anymore.

   "It's already an hour. I should probably go and see him,"

   "Alright. Goodluck, John. I'll be waiting here," he gave a friendly pat on his shoulder before seeing John off out the office door. He was nervous  _for_ him, not that that would help John feel any less nervous but it would make him feel less lonely in the situation.

* * *

   John left the room where Lestrade was loyally waiting for him and a guard was already holding up a tray of lunch food for him to bring it to Sherlock's cell. The guard led him down a few floors and entered the third door on the left of the long hallway. He was finally in a room that connected directly to Sherlock's room. The guard had stopped leading him up until that room, and now he's alone behind the door to Sherlock. Sighing, he opened the door by scanning an authorization card and once inside, he noticed the off-white surrounding, barely a hint of colour except... except the raven curls on the bed. God, he was even as pale as the sheets. Bracing himself, he stepped closer to the glass barrier that kept Sherlock inside the confinement.

   "I have your lunch," John started off gentle. No need to shock him yet. Sherlock sighed and just looked at his long fingers.

   "I don't want to eat,"

   "But you should". Sherlock looked annoyed that this person was insisting something he clearly doesn't want nor need, so he turned his head to tell whoever that was to piss off and leave him alone, only to see a familiar face. Eyes widen in shock, he stood up abruptly and walked slowly to the glass.  
   "You're... You're John Watson?" John followed suit and mirrored Sherlock's action to walk closer to the glass.  
   "Yes, I am,"  
   "We're we close?" he placed his palm against the glass and looks at him up and down, deducing his lifestyle from whatever he could gather. John put down the food tray somewhere near him and made sure he still had a safe distance between the glass and him as advised by the sign telling people to keep a healthy 1-3m distance from the glass.  
   "We were best friends, Sherlock,"  
   "Jim said you always left me for girlfriends and your friends because I was too weird for you," he frowned. "I was a  _freak_ ".

   John stepped back a few steps and stayed silent for a few seconds before managing to mutter out words of truth, " _You_ were my friend but  _you_ left me. I never thought you were a freak. Jim, is a freak. Not you".  
   " _Don't-_ say that about him!" he let his hand fall back to his side, suddenly giving up on trying to reach for the man in front of him. "I left you to save you, but Jim saved  _me_ when no one else could".

   "How?! Tell me how he saved you, Sherlock, because just look at you! You are skinnier than you've ever been, you're dangerously pale that I know if I were to take your hand, it would be ice cold. Now tell me, how the  _fuck_ did he save you?!" he was near shouting by now, because shit, can't Sherlock  _see_ what Moriarty had made him into? He's a walking corpse, for fucks sake.

   "If he didn't take me in, I would have died in an instant. He made me his best assassin. The sharpest tool in the shed,"  _Naive, naive Sherlock. Blinded by the attention given by the only person who showed a slight of care in the world when he was so alone in exile._

   John let out a sarcastic laughter and looked at Sherlock dead straight in the eyes. "Oh sorry. Yes, you're right. So  _priviledged_ and the best he had. But tell you what? None of that compared to what you had before, Sherlock.  _None of that._ "

   "Then tell me about that," he raised a questioning eyebrow, giving off a challenging vibe.

   "We lived together in Baker Street, with Mrs. Hudson as our landlady. You solve crimes and I blog about it apart from giving second opinions. Almost everyday a client would appear on our doorstep or send a letter of request about interesting cases because you would not second glance a dull one. People come to you, because you were  _the great Sherlock Holmes_ ," he looked away when he finished reminiscing the memories together before he fell to his so-called death. "You're Sherlock Holmes, the infamous consulting detective."

   That earned him a silent, thoughtful stare from Sherlock before he began asking in a small voice, "Why did I carved your name on my wrist? It's not what best friends would do, right? I had the strong urgency to not forget your name when I had the flashes of memories. Jim... Jim tried to stopped me once but I wouldn't let go of the knife," he pursed his lips as he remembered the panic in Moriarty's eyes when he saw how much Sherlock was bleeding from the cut and he sat with Sherlock the whole week, treating him like his whole world.  _Deep inside, he misses JIm Moriarty._

   "Show me your wrist," John knew Mycroft mentioned this concern during their briefing, but he let it pass because he was too confused and frustrated to even process new information at that moment. Sherlock, with a blank face, pulled up his sleeves to show the deep carving of "JW", deep enough to risk his own life. Sherlock looked down at the scar clearly in deep thought, most probably questioning himself about  _why_ he did it.

   He was definitely too close to the glass now, which was quite prohibited but he couldn't care less anymore at that point. "Fucking hell Sherlock, this could kill you!" He closes his eyes while trying to calm down from the headache Sherlock was giving him  _just after a few minutes in the room_. "What were your flashes about?"

   "About... the thrill. Running around London or something. But there's always you in it,"

   "Don't you miss the thrill? Because I did, for two years since you went away,"

   "I... missed  _you_? I don't even remember much of you but I really did missed you," he looked confused by his own statement. "Being in London gave me the warmth but being beside Jim makes me feel proud of myself but... I don't think he's coming for me anymore," _resignation._ "What will they do to me, John?"

   John felt the hurt when Sherlock said he felt the bliss of pride when he was with Moriarty but he managed to maintain his composure. "You will stay here for a long time, Sherlock. You murdered more than one person, and god knows how many more that you did under all of our noses. And we will try to recover your memories".

   "So, I'm just being held captive to be tested experimentally to see if I remember my old life? Might as well put a bullet in me," both of them simultaneously sighed.

   "Do you want to die before trying? Is your old life worth nothing to you?"

   "If it's true that Moriarty brainwashed me, then whatever you are doing to me is just the same. How many times do you need to alter my brain until you're satisfied?" This man just keeps on frustrating him more and more, to be honest.

   "We just want you back, Sherlock! Is that such a hard message to decipher?"

   "You want me back to being who I was just so you can leave me alone again?!  _Brilliant_. You clearly have  _someone_ , and my brother is apparently in the government. What's in it for me, huh?  _What good does this do to me?!_ " He was almost shouting now, in addition to the echo of the spacious rooms, all the while made it louder than it should be.

   "Of course, as if your two years of excursion did me good,"

   "What do you even mean by  _that_?"

   "Oh so  _now_ you give a damn?" he rolled his eyes in annoyance.

   "Why is it that  _everything I do_ or think is so wrong to you-to everyone?" he walked back to his bed and sighed as he sat down, avoiding any sort of eye contact. "Don't bother answering the question, then as it clearly frustrates you so much to even be in this room,"

   "Whatever you think, Sherlock," John went back to the small table where he placed the food tray and put the tray through a slot that allowed any sort of item to be transferred to the inside of Sherlock's cell, before leaving without even a goodbye.

* * *

   After a few minutes he stood staring at the empty walls of the hallway, deep in thought, he walked again towards Mycroft's office. When he entered and was greeted by an anxious Lestrade, he sat down on his chair and let out a heavy sigh.

   "Did it go well?"

   "Definitely not,"

   "He said that Moriarty saved him. That's just absurd," he frowned as he turned his head towards the computer monitor on Mycroft's desk that's now turned towards them. Greg must had turned it over out of curiosity of what was happening inside the cell.

   "From what on Earth did he do to save him? Moriarty was literally the reason he got in there in the first place!"

   "Yes, I know. I can't believe it. He obviously didn't save him. Look at his state-pale, too skinny,"

   "Where even is Moriarty?" he sighed.

   "Not saving Sherlock, that's for sure,"

   "Don't think he ever will,"

   "It'll be hard to make him remember all the important details,"

   Lestrade subconsciously nodded, agreeing with the statement. "Did he remember you?"

   "Apparently so. He had flashes from when we would be running around London together. And he told me that he missed me. This is just... Too much for my brain right now," 

   "But that's a positive thing, right?"

   "I suppose,"

   "Well, it's my turn soon. I'll tell you how it goes, alright? Then we'll figure this out,"

They  _need_ to do anything they can to bring back Sherlock from the unfamiliar character that's set upon them. It's unsettling. But they need to get Sherlock back before Moriarty suddenly come barging to to reclaim his prized possession.

* * *

 

   A few hours passed, and it's finally time for Lestrade to look at Sherlock after two years. This may or may not be the sarcastic, smart-arse man that helped him in the yard over the years. He grabbed the tray that was handed to him and walked towards Sherlock's room. Upon arriving, the first thing he did was to put the tray through into Sherlock's cell.

   "I haven't seen you in a while," he tried to put on a professional smile but all he got was a glance from Sherlock before his attention turned back towards his untouched lunch.

   "Not hungry. You can take back my lunch  _and_ my dinner,"

   "Apparently that's one thing Moriarty didn't change about you. You just don't eat, huh," Sherlock's attention was back to Lestrade, who was clearly standing in discomfort.

   "Are you one of the person I died for, then?"

   "Theoretically, yes. Not that you actually died but yeah," he sat down on a single chair nearby and tried to distract himself by looking around.

   Sherlock was silent for a bit before asking, "You're... Lestrade?" and got a simple nod as an answer from the man.

   "I'm sure you talked with John Watson and is aware that I don't remember much about you. So tell me what I should know. What are you to me?" As if scripted. This must just be for his mental notes.

   "I am the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, which hopefully you remember which place I'm talking about. You always helped me on cases and I suppose we have known each other for quite a while. Give or take, 9 years," Sherlock didn't at all looked impressed by the explanation, though. 

   "John said that I'm a consulting detective. Is that what people see me as? The detective who ran around solving cases you and/or my brother throw at me?"

   "Yes,"

   He stood up and moved to the glass that separated them. "So you want to revive the old Sherlock back. Why?"

   "Not necessarily the old one, but we just don't know you anymore at this point. We just want you to be yourself again. Not this... brainwashed version,"

   He crossed his arms, trying to fish more information. "Am I not myself? Right now?"

   "Sherlock, if you were yourself, you wouldn't be locked up in here!"

   "Well, I just happened to be locked up because I was careless. Just this once," Lestrade just hummed an answer. Seemingly like he wouldn't give out a verbal, more clear words, Sherlock continued the conversation further. "It's a funny thing; all of you said I worked for the law. But Moriarty made me the best  _against_ the law. How does that even should coincide?"

   "I don't know Sherlock, I don't know what he made you think, or what he was doing, for fucks sake I didn't even know you were alive, Sherlock!"

   "My work was supposed to be dangerous, it's better if people think I'm dead so I can work well undercover, under various disguises,"

   "I still don't see how that justifies it to let others think you're dead for two whole years!"

   "Maybe if you think from a merciful side; you wouldn't have to mourn twice if the situation occurs,"

   "That doesn't make it better, Sherlock! It's not about the what if's, it's about what  _did_ happen! And you might think "oh it's okay because I could've die for real" but that just doesn't bloody justify anything!" he sighed, trying to regain his patience. "Still stubborn, you are. Why is it so difficult to digest the fact that there are actual people out there caring for you and that they didn't want to mourn only once because you could have died again, no, we prefer not to mourn at all!"

   "Of course it is difficult for me to understand, especially after he proved to me that none of you cared but now you all said you do! How many times do you want to reset my brain just so you can manipulate it again?!" he was now clenching his fist on his sides, repressing any shouts.

   "How would we even tell you that we cared if we never knew where you were all these time? Tell me, Sherlock,  _how?!_ You keep saying that he told you that we didn't care and now we say that we do, but aren't able to prove it to you because you just couldn't be convinced anymore. When will you finally start listening?" sighing, he averted his gaze anywhere but at Sherlock.

   "When you could prove to me that Jim isn't coming for me,  _then_ I'll listen,"

   "Fine. Fine, just wait here for a hundred years if you want. Go on wasting your life waiting for someone who doesn't even bloody care about you!" he got up and walked to the door in a frustrated manner, near stomping his way out. "I hope you get your sense back," nodding a farewell to Sherlock, he stepped out of the confinement.

* * *

 

   He was beginning to feel ever the more frustrated because he got so many information but barely any clue of who he should be believing in at the moment. He walked back to his bed and started to scavange through his old assassin clothes that was folded on his bed, for a very particular item. It was just a simple embellished, posh brooch in the shape of a reindeer head.  _A token of rank_ as claimed by Moriarty. He also had a magpie brooch with him, but now he's not sure anymore if the items were sentimental or pure manipulation by affection by now.

   Everything was a mess but he remembered one important thing; pain stimulated his memories. He exposed the needle of the reindeer brooch, and slowly but firmly press the sharp end to his skin, somewhere at the end of the JW carving he made. He dragged it down his skin to form a long line continuing from the end of the letter W. It was now a mix of W and M. Watson and Moriarty. He needed to remember  _anything_ from this past life and make up his mind. It felt important. This...  _John_ felt important.

   He needed the actual truth but not even his mind could comprehend which one is to be believed.


End file.
